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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22938346">It's There I Would Fain Be</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/CenozoicSynapsid/pseuds/CenozoicSynapsid'>CenozoicSynapsid</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Purimgifts 2020 - A Demon Family [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>English and Scottish Popular Ballads - Francis James Child, The Queen of Elfan's Nourice - Anonymous (Song)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Collection: Purimgifts Day 3, Demons, Gen, Microaggressions</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-02-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 08:40:16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>991</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22938346</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/CenozoicSynapsid/pseuds/CenozoicSynapsid</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The other side… it’s not hell, you know? It’s just, like, a different perspective.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Purimgifts 2020 - A Demon Family [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1647988</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Purimgifts 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>It's There I Would Fain Be</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/RobberBaroness/gifts">RobberBaroness</a>.</li>



    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“So, you’re a… demon?”</p><p>“A <em>sheyd</em>. Just half.” I smile disarmingly at my new classmate. “It’s not really a big deal.”</p><p>Stay in nice mode, I remind myself. New school deserves the benefit of the doubt.</p><p>“So, is hell real? Have you been there?”</p><p>Nice mode...</p><p>“You know that’s not how this works, right? The other side… it’s not <em>hell</em>, you know? It’s just, like, a different perspective.”</p><p>“Well, my dad says…”</p><p>Honestly there’s not all that much doubt left in this conversation. I’m <em>really</em> tempted to just slip into the other side, the <em>sitra achra</em>, and run. Mom— Lia, the one I live with— would say to go for it. Jessica, the one who makes sure I actually get enrolled for school and get all my shots and stuff, would say there are more polite ways to end a conversation. Pick a role model, right?</p><p>I vanish.</p><p>Looking from this side, there’s no classrooms or furniture. Function isn’t important— it’s all about <em>matter</em>. There’s shiny metal, gritty concrete. Dust rises and falls in the air from a blowing vent. I watch it ebbing and flowing, like a river in the air, and calm myself. I could watch the dust for hours, I think, for years… except I have math class. I stay on this side, stay calm, till I’m in my seat, then re-emerge into the everyday.</p><p>“Where’d you come from?” says my new teacher. She’s white, middle-aged, dressed in baggy pastels, with an unflattering auburn dye job.</p><p>“I just transferred in from Thompson Middle?” I say, putting a bit of uncertainty into my voice so she knows I’m not talking back. “Is this Ms. Dixon’s fourth period algebra?”</p><p>“So you’re...” She looks down at her roster, pursing her lips sourly. “She-Ra?”</p><p>“Shira. Means <em>song</em>.”</p><p>“She-Ra,” she repeats. “Next time, walk into the class like a normal human being.”</p><p>And suddenly? Done with nice mode.</p><p>“I’ll walk <em>out </em>like one,” I say, and stomp off. I’m overreacting, but it’s totally worth it, at least until I end up in the vice principal’s office with my two moms and the vice principal all glaring at me at once.</p><p>Mothers can be bad news. Both <em>my</em> mothers are obsessed with folk music, so my lullabies taught me some unpleasant lessons: Ballad moms will curse you. They’ll ditch you for a guy, lie to your true love, turn your sister into a fish, and probably tip the hangman for finishing you off. Neither of my moms is <em>that</em> bad, but I mean, it’s not a high bar.</p><p>No, if my mom reminds me of a ballad, it’s the Queen of Elfland’s nurse, who at least <em>likes</em> her kid. Unfortunately, she’s stuck in Elfland while he grows up without her. The song doesn’t say if she makes it back in the end. Ballads being ballads, she probably doesn’t. In other words, I trust my mom to have my back. Just, in some weird out-of-touch way that will probably make everything <em>worse</em>.</p><p>Jessica, on the other hand, looks furious. It’s a cold fury; the vice principal probably thinks she’s really calm and patient, but I’m not fooled.</p><p>Anyway, he lays it all out for us. I entered Ms. Dixon’s class in a “disruptive” manner and left it while “insulting a member of our faculty”, and I am ruining my “opportunity to make a fresh start.” (Unfair. My grades at Thompson sucked, but I got along fine with people. I only left because Mom moved again.)</p><p>“And what do you have to say for yourself?” asks Jessica, with that deadly patience in her voice.</p><p>“She said I should walk in like a <em>normal human being</em>. I… other people were saying stuff this morning, and I… she was mispronouncing my name, and...”</p><p>Saying this out loud, I’m aware of how inadequate it all sounds. It <em>could </em>all be totally innocent.</p><p>Mom leans forward. “Oxford town around the bend, come to the door but I couldn’t get in, just because of the color of— the clerk’s daughters of Oxenford must learn some uncouth lore!”</p><p>She must have had a <em>really</em> terrible morning at work— the echolalia isn’t usually this bad.</p><p>“Take a deep breath,” says Jessica, the fury in her voice replaced with soothing calm.</p><p>“There’s not a lord in all this hall shall get my child’s name!” says Mom. “I mean—”</p><p>She takes a deep breath.</p><p>“It’s not fair,” she says, finally, but her tone is low and defeated. “Shira wouldn’t lie about this.”</p><p>I squirm in my seat. I <em>wouldn’t</em>— but it’s an awkward way to put it. Jessica sizes me up with her eyes, and I squeeze my fists tight, feeling the urge to vanish again. She finishes her wordless inspection and turns to the vice principal.</p><p>“How about this,” she says. “I can recommend some resources on microaggressions if you need them. And I can connect you with some good lawyers who specialize in workplace issues if that would be useful.”</p><p>She still sounds mad. But— and it’s like the whole scenario flips upside down— I don’t think she’s mad at <em>me</em>.</p><p>The vice principal nods, a little numbly.</p><p>“And then how about you swap Shira out of Ms. Dixon’s class? It’s her first day, so that shouldn’t be too difficult.”</p><p> The rest of the conversation is kind of a blur, a fight with weapons I’m still not sure I understand. But I can tell that Jessica is winning.</p><p>So I’m thinking hard, as my moms walk off to their cars and I head for Chemistry. Partly about how glad I am to get out of Ms. Dixon’s class. But partly about the Queen of Elfland’s nurse, trying to make it back before her kid grows up without her. Jessica <em>gets</em> us, now. Even when we’re acting weird. The song makes it seem like it’s a long, long way back from Elfland. Maybe it’s not. Maybe it was just a different perspective, all along.</p><p>
  
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This ballad is fragmentary and there aren't many performances. Here's one, though: <a href="https://rachelnewton.bandcamp.com/album/changeling">Rachel Newton</a></p><p>Lia's garbled quotation merges Child 72 "The Clerk's Twa Sons of Oxenford" and Bob Dylan's "Oxford Town".</p><p>I am grateful to my beta reader (to be revealed) for pointing out some confusions and inconsistencies in the drafts.</p><p>I do hope you like this set of stories. Thanks for giving me the opportunity to write them.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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